On the night she is finally well

They celebrate their last night sans kids
with cocktails
on the deck.

It is a humidity-free night, a breeze whispers past their shoulders and through their hair, a full moon hangs low and pregnant in a clear sky. The heady, earthy scent of newly laid mulch is subtle and lovely.

Inexplicably, but also because it makes complete sense, chicken stock simmers on the stove, liquid amber redolent of leeks and celery and a happy bird. The bones leave each other, the skin slips, the broth is golden; never having boiled, it is not cloudy. 

A pizza sizzles on the grill, another round of cocktails boogie with icy cubes in a silver shaker. They show their age by dancing madly, wildly, happily, freely to the Summer of '69 and You Shook Me All Night Long stations on Pandora.

Fat Bottomed Girls, Jessie's Girl, Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now, Right Now, Dream On, Paradise City, Your Love, House of the Rising Sun scream from the speakers; anthems for two who came of age in the 80s, that time of awful hair, leg-warmers and great music. 

Their cat watches with gimlet eyes. What does he think? He flicks his tail imperiously, knowing he is beloved.

They dance and twist and spin and breathe heavily; they are not in their twenties anymore. They are glad. 

Their boys are coming home tomorrow, and they can't wait to wrap their arms around their tan little bodies but they will also miss this sort of time. 

The Mamas and the Papas sing about the leaves turning brown and winter's days. The Stones paint it black, the cocktails are drunk, the stock starts to cool, tired bodies take to the couch, the cat joins, purring. 

The blackberry bush

The morning after Mom arrived, she shyly brought out a gift. It was wrapped in damp paper towels, newspaper, and a plastic bag.

“What do you think it is?” she asked as I carefully peeled back the layers, my hands trembling slightly.

“Well, it’s a plant. It has thorns. Oh, I know! It’s a cutting from your Dr. Van Fleet" (a climbing rose that’s been in our family for generations).

“No, not that. Try again.”

I guessed several times but never could figure out what the spindly, spiky plant was. Really, it was little more than two slender stalks and a dirty root ball.

“It’s one of Papa’s original blackberry bushes. It’s about 60 years old. I called the new owner of their house and asked if I could dig it up and bring it to you. I have another one, too, but it was too big for my suitcase. I’ll bring it next time.” (Papa was Mom's father, my grandfather).

Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I hugged Mom tight. “Thank you, Mom. Thank you so much.”

I looked at the treasure in my hands and noticed a lone earthworm still nestled among the tangle of roots. Its presence seemed auspicious, as if it loved the plant too, and didn't want to leave; so it stayed, amidst uprooting, wrapping, and two plane rides.

“The new owner and I agreed that you’re the one who’ll treasure it most, Em,” Mom replied, hugging me back. “Someday, the blackberries for your pies will come from this.”

I grew up eating Nanny’s blackberry pies. Nanny, Mom’s mom, was the grandparent with whom I was closest. She was one of my dearest friends. She died two years ago, and, as y'all likely know, I still miss her almost daily. She (and also Mom) taught me to make her pie crust and pie, and I now make them all the time, for blackberry is also Jack's favorite.

I have written frequently about Nanny and her pies. I have made blackberry pie more times than I can count. It’s a simple pie- just four ingredients in the crust and three in the filling. It’s the sort of dish that proves that the little things matter, that god is in the details and they needn’t be fancy.

That Papa planted some blackberry bushes in a sunny spot by a storage shed on his Lake Charles land sixty years ago changed the course of our family in a way. Those bushes spread and grew and fed not only my grandparents and their children, but also their grandchildren and friends, sons- and daughters-in-law, neighbors and great grandchildren.

Now, one of those plants sits humbly in a sunny spot by a storage shed in Maryland, planted carefully and with love by Papa’s daughter and granddaughter. It is leafing out with happy abandon, and each day, when I visit it to water and check on its progress, I see family and history and love. I am reminded of the value of falling and letting yourself be picked up, of valuing the little bits of life that make it glow and shine.

Boo!

I would just like to say that I caught a bug in New York, felt progressively worse during the trip and now have a full-fledged nasty cold with all the attendant crud. I feel like Nutmeg looks right now: over it.

I know that a cold is an extremely silly thing to whine about in the grand scheme of things, but I dropped Mom and Ol at the airport today at 12:30 and have, for the first time, in a good year, five days off from motherhood. I spent all day in bed and do not want to spend my whole break like that. 

BOO! on chest congestion and sinus face-ache and mounds of used tissues looking like so much snow. BOO! on dulled taste buds and weak limbs and no clinking of glasses with me olde hubs in celebration of this rare break.

At least the boys are thrilled to be in Louisiana, commencing their annual Big Boys Week with a trip to the pool and races with pint-sized battery-powered cars and junk food and going to bed late. And at least there are many episodes of The Americans to be watched.

I said to Ol today, "Honey, I'm sure going to miss you." And he said, "Well, I have to go, but I will come back." HAH!